‘Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse . . .” or so the familiar 19th-century American poem of disputed authorship goes. Only it’s wrong. No mouse in its right mind will be quietly asleep tonight. Christmas Eve is probably the biggest event in the mouse calendar. In homes across the globe, wherever children have left out snacks for Santa Claus, mice will be celebrating – feasting on mince pies and strudel and the old favourite – chocolate. Mice crave chocolate and are far more adroit than reindeer. Not even Rudolf can move as quickly as a mouse . . .
But for all the goodwill on offer very few people thrill at the idea of ecstatic mice rampaging through their homes. Enter the most skilled rodent-control machine yet to evolve, the domestic cat. For generations, nay centuries, human cat-owners have gloated over the sophisticated flair of pets that admittedly toy with varying levels of sadistic aplomb when dealing with mice.
As the temperature drops the mouse become more visible. It could be that central heating gives him or her – they invariably tend to be pregnant females – additional courage. Our home is a known sanctuary. Local badgers enjoy perusing the haylage in the barn.
Frolicked
The other day three mice frolicked on the kitchen window sill, watched by three of the dogs, then reclining on the breakfast room sofa. One of the mice paused and calmly sniffed bread hot from the oven. There was something irritating about the mouse’s attitude, an air of entitlement.
Enough was enough; time to summon the family cats. There are six of them, all committed to indoor living. Still, they are natural hunters and probably trade tales about heroic feral ancestors that once banished armies of barn rats the size of orcs.
Gladiator-like came the first cat into the arena. Dickens – yes he is named after the great man – ventured on to the window sill only to gaze in terror at the mice. It was disappointing. I brought down another of the large males. No fear showed in Insp Bucket’s expression, only disgust and open longing for the fresh bread. It was the turn of his mother, Mimi, more Brecht than Puccini. She considered the mice and – it was obvious – no interest.
As for the remaining three cats, it’s too embarrassing to recount . . . What has happened to the domestic cat? Have art house DVDs, gourmet cat food and comfort destroyed its hunting instinct?
It was left to this human to pick up the largest mouse. Its tiny heart raced as I held it in one hand, placed cat food and cheese with the other into a plastic container along with the mouse, before walking into the garden, watched by the silent dogs.
About 800 metres away, near the river bank, the mouse, busy eating inside its cosy doughnut carton – such a sweet little face – and oblivious to its little journey and my lecture, was advised never to return.
Painkillers
Back at the house, further scratching led to a straw basket-like bag, the forgotten hiding place of painkillers for my various injuries. The mice had found them. Every plastic blister had been eaten away, as had the tablets. A bloated mouse stared up from the debris.
Again, I marched through the kitchen, past the dogs and out into the garden; the crazed mouse flew out of the bag, propelled by drugs. The other mouse had remained on the window sill. It was too easy to catch.
Having also dabbled in humane traps – tunnel-like contraptions that close on entry – I have caught only two mice this way, both of which appeared, on release, to have enjoyed the adventure. The problem is obvious: domestic cats have got softer while the modern mouse is a cavalier superhero, a worthy adversary.